World of Warcraft®

A month of relentless war is never kind.

A month of horror, a month of torture wrought by the hands of a madwoman.

Deep within the comatose Dwarf, memories of dead friends and strangers haunts him, but not all are of his own past, for Sir Rhudran of the Argent Rose, Brother Rhudran the Faithful of the Argent Dawn, has been cursed by dark hands and with dark intentions.

By cruel fate, the very skill he had honed to heal others has now locked him in a hateful, brutal struggle. The primal element of Light twisted and filled his body in a futile attempt to heal him. The nefarious runes carved into his body twist and re-purpose its power to the will of she who carved them, fueling the pain, the nightmares, the coma.

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The world is a dark brown, as if the world has been choked with smoke.

The trees...mushrooms...this is Plaguewood. The flora and the stone Human ruins are easy enough to recognize, but someth-

The pain. The impossible, burning pain. It grows so intense, I can barely fee-

Some horrible concoction of the Scourge is consuming me! A plague that can consume flesh. I must fight it with the Light! No, the Light will not help. Its Holy, pious nature abandons those who fall victim to things so terrible.

This is absurd! The Light abandons none. It is more than faith! More than faith!!

The flesh-eating plague continues to consume me - my armor, my flesh and bones...but I look up.

Through the maelstrom of the cries and screams of unholy battle, a lone whimper can be heard. The world tunnels itself on the plight of a single, small creature in filthy, filthy clothes.

It cries just yards away, shaking all over.

I...I am done for. I have failed the Argent Dawn; I cannot heal myself, let alone its warriors.

Damn ye, ah kinnae fail meself!

Through the scorching, scarring pain, I drag my useless body toward the small figure. Easing its pain is all that is important, now, in these final moments before my belly begins to decay - mortally.

The small figure looks up, and I reel in horror, for that is no little girl! It is a caricature, the skin has dried and tightened over the bones, half the hair has fallen off the skeletal head. Its whimpers are less the crying of a living thing, more the frightened pining of an animal, and its plight, as I realize, is no less dire. It looks into my eyes, and, somehow, it manifests its desire.

I look down at the horror that was my legs, and rummage into my haversack. By some morbid luck, the rations are untouched by disease or even dirt.

I lift my waterskin to the creatures mouth, and hold the skin for it as it drinks greedily. I don't notice a change until I look back down to get it some food.

The beautiful Dwarven child smiles knowingly at me, and she rests her tiny hands upon the ration in my own. The world yet again darkens as a strange rumbling intensifies, until all I remember is the smiling child's face.

ooc--wonderful, simply wonderful. i love it.

An odd respite from the nightmare comes from an all too real vision; the images are fragmented, broken recollections of thought. A man wielding blade against the viewer, his skin melting and bubbling before the eyes that watch him, his cries of pain vanishing into a deep, sorrowful wind that echoes far...

To a citadel, a floating royal abode, enshrouded by shadow. It is shattered and weak, at least in its present form, but the ancient stone speaks a tempting peace. There are souls and creatures that float around the ruins, breaking wards and runes and rebuilding the broken home.

The sight flies through the ruins, tearing around the broken stone and royal colours, speaking peace and adoration through the souls that work within, as well as the nightmare that pervades. Is it a nightmare, or a memory? And who does it belong to?

The image fades almost as quickly as it came, returning to the nightmares...

The house was warm, cozy and welcoming as anyone could want. A fire crackled in the fireplace, with an occasional pop as a log exploded and crumbled into brightly glowing coals. Faithe pulled her skirts away from a wayward ember that leapt out on to the hearth like a pup pouncing on a bug. She stepped on the gleaming ash and then resumed ladling broth from the soup pots simmering over the fire. She'd added extra beef to the soup to give Rhudran strength.

With a weary hand, she pushed away a strand of hair from her face. Both she and Rhudran had a rough night. He was plagued by nightmares, she was sure. He tossed and frowned, sometimes mumbling something unintelligible, but remained locked in the deep sleep from which she daily prayed for his release.

He'd lost weight. Too much weight. How long could a man remain caught between the veils of life and death? Long enough for them to bring him home...whatever it took.

She sat down by his bedside and tied a bib around his neck, then laid a towel under his head to keep the drips of broth off the linens. she put her arm behind his neck and lifted him up tenderly, then began talking to him softly as she fed him a scant teaspoon of soup. She massaged his throat to get him to swallow. She carried on a quiet conversation with him, talking about the fruits and vegetables they had planted. She discussed the new flower and herb beds with some excitement. His eyelids flickered slightly, but there was no other response.

With the last of the broth down him, she laid him back down as gentle as a butterfly's whisper and kissed his forehead. "Return to us, old friend."

She stood and pulled a clean cloth from the stack near the bed. The water in the pitcher was pleasantly cool as it poured over her fingers into the basin. She rinsed her hands in the bowl then wiped her face to refresh it. She looked at Rhudran again and squeezed fresh water through the cloth. "We really should have shaved you clean, but the other dwarves wouldn't hear of it."

Water trickled down his neck where she washed his face and the beard to make sure no broth remained. She then pulled the towel from beneath him. "Return to those who care, let go the lifeless stare..."